


Luke 12:2

by walkwithursus



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Confessions, Drinking, Emotionally Repressed, Forgiveness, Historical References, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining, Old Testament Aziraphale, Regrets, Repressed Memories, Secrets, Sexually Suggestive Conversations, Spontaneous Miracles, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, accidental miracles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:57:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: “This body, it aches for you, Crowley. It has for some time. But I’ve been so afraid that this indulgence would be one too many. That if I were to act on these feelings that I would…” Aziraphale’s bottom lip wobbles. He cannot bring himself to say the word.“You won’t - wouldn’t.” The words tear out of Crowley’s throat before he can stop them.Aziraphale shakes his head disbelievingly. “How can you be sure?” He whispers.“Just... trust me on this one.”OrAziraphale and Crowley have slept together once before. Only one of them remembers.





	Luke 12:2

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful [xpityx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx) for the beta!

_For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed,_  
__

_neither hid that shall not be known._

It’s been days, perhaps even weeks since the Apocalypse that wasn’t, and despite all evidence toward the contrary, everything seems to have changed. 

Nothing major, of course. Other than a few childish substitutions, there are no glaring differences between Crowley’s life before the Apocalypse and after. 

But there are little things, little moments that accumulate like many rocks in the pit of one’s stomach, slowly weighing him down until it’s impossible not to notice they’re there. One skipped dessert for Aziraphale, one early night, one refused invitation, these things by themselves aren’t alarming. But they begin to add up, until Crowley is left with the feeling that he is missing something other than Aziraphale’s company, something important that he has failed to notice since the world restarted. 

To be clear, it’s not as though he had expected them to spend a great deal of time together once things were over. Perhaps it had been something to hope for (not that demons went around hoping for things on a regular basis), but certainly it wasn’t to be expected. After all, for the last eleven years the only thing uniting them had been a shared cause, a common goal in mind. Without the anti-Christ's upbringing to discuss or the looming nature of Armageddon, it only made sense for things to cool between them, for the old routine of infrequency to rear its ugly head.

Still, it’s rather difficult to remember such ordinary things as boundaries and courtesy after all that has transpired. But for Aziraphale’s sake, Crowley tries - really, truly tries. He makes himself scarce until he can’t anymore, until the incessant boredom of his newfound freedom drives him to pick up the phone or hop in the car or wander on foot all the way to Aziraphale’s bookshop, so that he might waltz in with an air of casualty and collapse into the antique barber’s chair Aziraphale keeps just for him. The angel almost always lets him stay, as though Crowley were a stray cat he’s grown accustomed to, if not fond of. Sometimes Crowley feels guilty for imposing, but not in any real, consequential way. 

Being at the bookshop doesn’t necessarily make things better, though. In fact, the new world seems most different when they are together, as though all the little changes and inconsistencies are thrown into sharp relief. In Crowley’s presence, Aziraphale is increasingly silent, introspective, bordering on pensive, though the word seems to imply a sort of brooding quality at odds with the angel’s character. And this is the greatest change, Crowley thinks - greatest in that it is the worst. 

There are moments where it seems as though Aziraphale wants to speak, to unburden himself of whatever it is that has been weighing on his mind. Crowley is quick to pick up on these moments and disrupt them, turning his cheek to avoid eye contact or ditching Aziraphale altogether, if that’s what it takes. As intrinsic as curiosity is to his being, Crowley does not ask and does not make himself available to be told; if Aziraphale regrets their alliance, or misses the embrace of heaven, Crowley does not wish to know it. In six thousand years, he has become quite adept at pretending things are fine when they aren’t. By now, his knack for avoiding confrontation borders on an art form. 

Unbeknownst to him, such efforts are soon to be wasted. 

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“My dear, there is something I must tell you,” Aziraphale says, with the strained quality of one who is moments away from unleashing a verbal onslaught. He’s spent the better part of the evening nursing a single glass of wine, which is set aside in favor of empty, nervous hands. Crowley, who had been dozing off and on in the armchair beside the bookshop’s fireplace, blinks to a wary sort of attention.

“Go on,” he says slowly, turning right-ways in his seat. Exhaustion makes him soft, bleary-eyed, but a sort of tension begins to crawl beneath his skin as if on instinct.

“You might think me foolish,” Aziraphale hedges.

Crowley snorts. “I already think you foolish.” The jibe wrings a momentary smile from the angel’s lips, but all too soon they are pursed again. Crowley, whose mouth is suddenly very dry, downs the last of his wine in one long swallow and says, “Just spit it out, angel.” The words come out half a snarl. 

“Yes. Yes, alright. No sense in dragging it out any further,” Aziraphale says, more to himself than anything. He sits up straighter and clears his throat, and Crowley feels dread pool in his stomach like so many more rocks. For a moment silence fills the room, as though neither of them are quite ready to shatter the tenuous peace they’ve worked so hard to achieve. And then it breaks.

“I feel that there are some things I need to clarify,” Aziraphale begins, enunciating each of his words with care. The calm of his tone is belied by the anxious way he twists his pinkie ring around and around his little finger. “Over the years, there have been many instances where I have denied any association with you, any good feeling for you. And I’m afraid, dear boy, that to do so was less than honest of me. You see,” the angel pauses, takes a steadying breath. “I like you so very much.” 

Behind the sunglasses, Crowley blinks. 

“Perhaps you already knew that,” Aziraphale chuckles doubtfully. “But I don’t believe I’ve ever admitted it until now. Not even to myself. For so long it didn’t feel _safe_ to love you. I thought that by distancing myself from you I was protecting you. Protecting us both. But now…” 

Aziraphale smiles, and the ethereal glow surrounding his corporation takes on the appearance of an aura of white flame, burning brighter by the second. It reaches out and smolders within Crowley’s chest until his mouth tastes like ash.

“We no longer have to hide,” continues the angel, so earnestly it leaves him breathless. “We can be together openly, if that’s what we wanted.” The light is so bright. “If - If you should choose to accept me.” So warm. “I know that you can’t sense it the way I do, but the love I feel for you Crowley, it’s so strong I - ” It’s blistering.

“Ow.” Crowley interrupts Aziraphale’s heartfelt confession with a sudden expletive. “Fuck! Ow, _ow!”_

In a flash, Aziraphale is on his knees beside him, scooping his hand up and clasping it between both of his own. 

“What is it? What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” 

“Yesss - no - I don’t know,” Crowley hisses between harsh, open mouthed pants. His chest is burning, alive with an unfamiliar fire that seems to be radiating from his core outwards. Aziraphale’s gentle fingers are like red hot pokers on his skin, and he extricates his hand from the angel’s grasp and curls in on himself. Aziraphale remains crouched where he is, his perfect cherub’s face warped with concern. “Back up - ” Crowley commands, “ - just back up!”

Aziraphale hastens to obey, scuttling backwards until his shoulder blades strike the far wall. “I don’t understand,” he whispers, wide-eyed and helpless. 

Crowley gulps in a few lungfuls of air and forces them to cooperate, to form words in tandem with his leaden tongue. “It’s you, you stupid angel! Dumping all your... love sickness off on me. Feels like I’ve been fucking... tarred and feathered from the inside,” Crowley snarls, clawing at his chest through the layers of his jacket and shirt. The distance between them seems to dampen the flame, and gradually it feels as though the heat is subsiding. For a long minute Crowley concentrates on breathing, short, sharp snorts that flare his nostrils, until at last his limbs relax and he noodles out into the armchair. 

Aziraphale remains where he is. When at last he speaks, it is with exasperated fondness. “It’s not me, Crowley. You can’t feel the love produced by other beings. Remember Tadfield?”

Tadfield. What had happened in Tadfield? Crowley casts his mind back, simultaneously mopping his brow with the back of his hand. They’d been driving through the countryside when out of nowhere Aziraphale had proclaimed to feel flashes of some strong emotion - love, he’d said. The only thing Crowley had felt at the time was the blast of the AC. 

With an awkward cough, Crowley straightens himself out in the armchair and hooks the dangling arm of his sunglasses back over one ear. “Your point?”

“Well, not to downplay my feelings for you, but if you were unable to feel the love of the anti-Christ, I really doubt you’d be able to feel my own.”

_Which means…_

The words aren’t said aloud, but a gentle provocation toward introspection lingers in their absence. Crowley stands up, sits back down, stands up again, and wonders if he looks half as foolish as he feels. 

“Maybe it’s different this time,” Crowley insists, beginning to pace the floor. “Maybe this time I can feel it because - because it’s directed at me?” From across the room, the angel shakes his head, carefully expressionless. His hands are folded serenely across his round belly. His aura is shining again. “Well, you don’t think - ” Crowley tries, puffing himself up. “I mean, it couldn’t possibly be…” 

Aziraphale’s lips curve upwards in a shy smile. “You love me,” he says, as though it were a treasured fact. Crowley cringes internally just as the warmth reignites in his chest.

At least he has no one to blame but himself. With a dramatic moan, Crowley flings himself face down onto the sofa and speaks into it. “Smite me. Smite me now.”

Aziraphale sighs. Soft footfalls carry him across the room until he is kneeling beside the demon once more. “Now, now, that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” He murmurs, patting Crowley on the back. The fingertips sizzling on his shoulder are like glowing coals. “There’s no need to hide your face. Really, I’m very flattered. No one has ever loved me before.” 

“Not true,” Crowley mutters petulantly into the ancient couch cushion before rolling over. By some demonic miracle, his sunglasses have stayed on. “God loves you.”

“Not the way you do.” With gentle nudges he guides Crowley to sit up straight before settling himself in the abandoned armchair. “And I wouldn’t want you to. The bond we share is separate from all that; unique and miraculously special.”

“Is it?” Crowley mutters, less a question and more of a bitter statement. 

“It is,” says Aziraphale firmly. “The way I feel about you - that we feel about each other - “ Crowley gives him a sharp look, but Aziraphale places a hand over his chest, as though to remind him that as a being of love, he can feel that which Crowley leaves unsaid. “It’s like we were bound to each other even before the beginning. I long to be close to you in every sense of the word, Crowley. To share everything with you; my heart, my soul, my mind… and my body, such as it is.”

Crowley’s throat convulses in an attempt to swallow. The burning in his core has returned, stronger and brighter than before, but somehow bearable now that he can place its origin. As a former angel, he can handle a bit of tenderness, a bit of vulnerability; the claws digging into the arms of the sofa are the only indication to the contrary. 

“Aziraphale…” He croaks, half warning, half plea.

Aziraphale continues undeterred, his voice rapidly rising in pitch as though at last they are nearing the crux of the issue. “This body, it _aches_ for you, Crowley. It has for some time. But I’ve been so afraid... afraid that this indulgence would be one too many. That if I were to act on these feelings that I would…” Aziraphale’s bottom lip wobbles. He cannot bring himself to say the word. 

_Fall._

“You won’t - _wouldn’t._ ” The words tear out of Crowley’s throat before he can stop them. 

Aziraphale shakes his head disbelievingly. “How can you be sure?” He whispers. His piercing blue eyes have become pastel with unshed tears. Crowley longs to hold his gaze, but direct eye contact with Aziraphale is a bit like staring into the sun, only brighter and more painful. He avoids looking quite at him as he replies through clenched teeth:

“Just... trust me on this one.”

Aziraphale twists his hands in his lap and sighs, as though he had hoped for a more convincing argument. “I do, you know. Trust you,” he says eventually. “I just wish there was a way we could be sure.” Slipping a handkerchief from his pocket, Aziraphale dabs at his eyes and tries to put on a brave face. “Pah! So silly of me to get so upset. I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Considering the pain my confession alone just caused you, I can scarcely imagine what would happen if we were to… well. You know.” He spreads his hands, palms up. 

Crowley fixes the angel with a long, hard stare. There is a part of him, a nameless, broken part that knows firsthand what it’s like to have questions, to seek answers, to question God’s ineffable plan. It’s not a pleasant feeling. In his memory, it aches like a bruise, sucking like a black hole until there is nothing left but the thirst for knowledge, for righteous truth. He can see the beginnings of it reflected on the angel’s face now, the barest glimmer of doubt, and beyond that, fear and shame. 

What wouldn’t Crowley give to put an end to Aziraphale’s suffering? To soothe his guilt and set his mind at ease? The answer is nothing. There is exactly nothing he wouldn’t sacrifice for Aziraphale’s continued happiness and contentment. Even a millennia-old secret. Beneath his rib cage, Crowley’s heart is pounding, faster than it has all night, faster than it has since the events of Armageddon. His lips form words, so quiet only a being with supernatural hearing could understand them:

“You really don’t remember, do you?” 

“Remember what?” Aziraphale queries, blinking innocently at him from behind his handkerchief.

“Aziraphale…” Crowley hesitates, trying simultaneously to both interpret and ignore the alarm bells clanging between his ears. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and goes for the plunge. “We’ve done it before.”

The smallest, most perfect of wrinkles appears between Aziraphale’s golden brows. “Done what before, dear?”

Crowley merely raises his eyebrows over the round frames of his sunglasses. For a long moment Aziraphale continues to look puzzled, until comprehension dawns on his face by degrees. 

“No,” he whispers hoarsely. “Impossible. Surely I would remember - !” His eyes, no longer misty, scrutinize Crowley’s face for some semblance of explanation. 

“Don’t look at me,” Crowley shrugs, sprawling further across the sofa and trying unsuccessfully to appear unbothered. “You’re the one who forgot.” 

Aziraphale makes a series of disbelieving noises while stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. “I really don’t see how I could forget such a thing,” he says tersely, though his expression betrays a flicker of anxiety. “Are you quite sure you’re not mistaken?”

Much as he’d like to say yes, that it was an error, a momentary lapse in sanity, Crowley finds himself unable to lie to the angel. The discomfort of the situation is overwhelming, but so is the relief at finally clearing the proverbial skeleton from its over-cluttered closet. “Quite sure,” he admits, ducking his head meekly. 

“When?” 

Crowley pretends to think, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, I dunno… Remember that time we sort of hung around Rome for a few decades?” 

Aziraphale’s face rapidly drains of the last of its color. “You mean… not... _two thousand years ago?”_

“Thereabouts.”

Aziraphale looks absolutely flabbergasted. Worst of all, he looks convinced. 

“You believe me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers, a bit stunned. “Yes, I suppose I do. I just… Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure until now if you’d just forgotten, or if you were, you know - ” Crowley waves a hand emphatically, “ - just trying to put the whole thing out of your mind.”

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything at all!” Aziraphale exclaims, looking truly lost. “Why don’t I remember? Some sort of trick?”

“No, bless it, nothing like that!” Crowley coughs awkwardly. “There er... may have been alcohol involved.”

“How very human,” mutters Aziraphale, unimpressed. For a long moment he seems to ponder the new information, resting his chin on his fist and staring into nothing. Crowley drums his fingers agitatedly against his knees as he waits for his ire, the fiery retribution that is sure to follow. At length Aziraphale breathes a deep, shaky inhale, and his sharp gaze lands on Crowley. “You must tell me everything.”

Crowley withers under the intensity of his stare. “It was two thousand years ago, angel, I don’t really remember much,” he mumbles. It’s a terrible, unconvincing lie, and they both know it. Considering the sheer number of times he’s reflected back on the memory over the years, it’s one of the best preserved in his arsenal. 

“Please, Crowley. I don’t like knowing that I’ve got this - this _gaping hole_ in my memory,” says Aziraphale entreatingly, his brow furrowed. “I know it was a long time ago, but if you could just tell me as much as you remember, I would be eternally grateful.” 

Crowley hesitates. Like a dragon hoarding a bit of gold, this is not a memory he had ever intended to share with anyone, least of all Aziraphale. But the angel’s bright, anticipatory gaze is like a metaphysical crowbar, prising open the deepest recesses of Crowley’s mind until it lies open and bare, forbidden fruit ripe for the plucking. 

“I can try,” he finds himself saying, almost without meaning to.

Aziraphale releases a relieved breath and smiles at him. “Thank you, dear boy, thank you,” he says, sitting up straight and folding his hands genially across his lap. “Please, start at the beginning.”

Crowley screws up his face in concentration. Like Aziraphale, he had been incredibly intoxicated that night and his memory had suffered for it. But he is eager to please, now, and unwilling to disappoint. Parsing through a series of mental images, he recalls the dimly lit interior of a Roman tavern. 

“We met at that restaurant,” Crowley begins slowly, “the one you liked so much.”

“Petronius’s?”

“That’s the one. Although by that time I think he’d died, and his wife had taken over. Anyway, we had a few drinks, and you remember those Romans, only watering down their wine right before they drank it. My guess is whatever they were serving that night had a much higher alcohol concentration than we were used to.”

Aziraphale interrupts the flow of the story to cluck his tongue disapprovingly. “Sorry, go on.”

Crowley nudges his glasses up his forehead to press on his eyes, thinking hard. “I think the restaurant must have closed at some point. One of us had a room at the inn, and we decided to take the party back there. We had a few more drinks, and I don’t know, I guess one thing sort of lead to another and we...”

“Made love?” 

Crowley winces. “Please don’t use those words in that order ever again.” 

“Apologies,” says Aziraphale, perfunctorily. “But that is what happened, no?”

“...More or less.”

Aziraphale nods without speaking, as though he is absorbing this bit of information and storing it for later. Crowley takes the opportunity to search his face for signs of anger and finds none. Frustration, yes, uncertainty maybe, but nothing to suggest the angel is particularly upset with Crowley. At length he shakes himself out of his thoughts and smiles. The lines around his mouth are only fractionally tighter than usual. “May I ask something rather… indecorous?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley waves an accommodating hand. “Anything you want.”

The strain of Aziraphale’s smile is betrayed by the slightly dreamy quality of his eyes. “What was it like?”

“ _‘What was it like?’_ ” Crowley parrots croakily, as though he had misheard him. Whatever question he’d been expecting, it certainly was not this. 

“Yes. I mean, was it nice? No - ” Aziraphale shakes his head, backtracking, “perhaps ‘nice’ is not the word. Was it, then - that is to say - did we enjoy ourselves?”

Crowley contemplates his answer for a moment before arching a wicked brow. “You remember Mount Vesuvius?” 

Quick on the uptake, Aziraphale gasps and claps a hand over his mouth. “We didn’t!”

“We did.”

“Pompeii?” 

“Yep.” Crowley lounges back with a self-satisfied smirk. His pride is short lived. Instead of looking grudgingly impressed, Aziraphale’s golden visage appears nothing short of horrified, and it occurs to Crowley that apart from being an exquisite eruption and a rather magnificent archaeological find, several thousand people caught their death in Pompeii that day. Quick to assuage the angel’s guilt, Crowley tacks on, “I’m pretty sure that was all me, though. You know, if you want to get technical.”

“What makes you say that?” Aziraphale asks miserably, already retrieving his handkerchief from a well-worn pocket.

Crowley wriggles his bones further into the squashy sofa. If it weren’t for the devastated look on Aziraphale’s face, he wouldn’t dare admit it, but…

“The timing of the eruption sort of lined up with… you know.” He attempts to finish the sentence, but succeeds only in producing a stream of garbled vowels. 

“Ah,” says Aziraphale knowingly, having become well-versed in translating Crowley’s nonsense vocalizations over the years. He gives a polite little cough. “The eruption occurred at the moment you achieved sexual climax.”

Crowley hisses and makes a gesture as though to cover his ears. “Sssssh! You sound like a bloody classroom health seminar!” He finishes the last bit in a mutter, “and I should know - I designed the curriculum.” 

“Well, I don’t know what else to call it,” Aziraphale huffs, feigning indignation in an effort to hide his embarrassment. “Besides, it’s not like you left me much choice. If you’d been able to say anything at all, I wouldn’t have had to swoop in and rescue you with my technical vocabulary.”

It’s a fair point, and one Crowley can’t argue, unless he wants to introduce Aziraphale to the dark underbelly of sexual terminology. Which he might, someday. For now, just talking to the angel about sex is enough to make him want to crawl out of his own skin. 

“So, then,” says Aziraphale, trying to steer the conversation back on track. “Did I also… erm, achieve...?” The pink in the angel’s cheeks deepens as he lets the question hang. Mercifully, Crowley nods, and Aziraphale continues. “And when I - when it happened, did I cause anything to…?” 

Crowley’s lips split to reveal an unnaturally sharp grin. “Never seen anything like it. Miracles on every street corner.”

“Really?” The angel’s eyes are round as dinner plates. “Such as?”

“Oh, you know,” Crowley tosses his head vainly, enjoying the captivated audience. “River into wine, one hundred years of bountiful harvest, healthy, sweet-tempered babies. I think you even eliminated leprosy, at least in that general area.” 

Aziraphale looks genuinely pleased, until Crowley, unable to conceal anymore information from the angel than he already has over the years, adds, “Of course, there was also the great rain and thunder, you know, which was necessary for the harvest. And I think the remaining babies might’ve been on their best behavior after what happened to the first-borns. Come to think of it, I can’t remember if you actually healed the lepers, or if they all just mysteriously disappeared...”

“Oh.” In a matter of seconds, the angel’s face has gone from flushed and curious to incredibly pale, almost sickly. “A-Anything else?”

Crowley hesitates. “The river might’ve been blood.”

“Oh. Oh dear,” Aziraphale says tremulously. He makes a valiant attempt to stay upright before sagging back into the armchair, utterly defeated. 

Crowley leans forward in a gesture that, were it performed by any other creature, could have been interpreted as concern. “Should I not have told you?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, and then again more firmly. “No, I’m glad you did. If I hadn’t known, we might’ve gone down that same path... at least, I know I wanted to. But we can’t risk letting any of that happen again.”

“No,” Crowley agrees, decidedly less certain. “No, I suppose not.” 

Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second before darting away towards the corners of the room. 

“Well. That’s that then.”

There is a depressing lull in the conversation. Eventually, Aziraphale tops up his wine glass before passing it on to the demon. Abandoning decorum, Crowley takes a swig straight from the bottle and sighs. They drink in silence for what feels like a very long time, until Crowley, no longer able to stand it and feeling significantly drunker than before, speaks up. 

“I really didn’t intend to tell you all that, you know.” He hiccups. 

“I know.”

“To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised you even believed me.” Ignoring the angel’s mild look of disapproval, he kicks his scaly feet up onto the coffee table and hiccups again. Crowley doesn’t like the hiccups. He miracles them away. 

“Surprised?” 

“You know - taking a demon at its word. ‘S’just not like you. I really thought I’d have to do more convincing.”

“Oh, no. I mean yes. You were quite convincing.” Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a rosy red flush creeps up Aziraphale’s neck to warm his cheeks and ears. He takes an overlong sip of wine. From across the room, Crowley can’t help but notice the way his hand shakes on the stem of his wine glass.

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“With me? Nothing,” Aziraphale says, in that falsely innocent way of his. Crowley remains unconvinced. Dishonesty is, to an angelic being, what oil is to water. Fundamentally incompatible.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Crowley states, narrowing his eyes behind his glasses. Aziraphale opens his mouth to protest, but Crowley silences him with a gesture. “Don’t try and hide it. For hell’s sake, I’m a demon. I can _smell_ the shame coming off you. ‘S like a sixth sense.”

“Actually, I think that’s one of the five,” Aziraphale quips. 

“Don’t get smart with me,” growls Crowley, leaning forward heavily in his seat. “Come on, out with it.” 

“Really, it’s nothing.“

“Liar”

“I’m not lying. And I’d really rather we changed topic - “

“Not until you’ve told me.”

“There’s nothing to tell!”

On it goes, the circuitous argument. Crowley, being a demon and of darker stock, thrives on the tedium of it, while the angel grows distinctly more ruffled, looking more and more like a puffed up pigeon by the moment. At last, when he can take no more, Aziraphale leans back in his chair and snaps:

“Fine! If you must know, it was around the time you indicated that I first noticed I had made an - an effort.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Aziraphale ducks into his wine glass, supremely embarrassed. 

“You mean, before that you hadn’t…?” Crowley trails off as Aziraphale nods, beet red. “And so what, you just woke up one morning, looked down and there it was? No questions asked?”

“I thought it might have been some sort of Divine Intervention.” 

_“Divine Intervention?”_ Crowley laughs only as long as it takes for him to pick up on Aziraphale’s displeasure, at which point he stops abruptly. His shoulders shake with the effort. “Oh, come on, angel, you’ve got to admit that’s pretty funny.”

“I don’t see the humor in it,” Aziraphale sniffs, squaring his shoulders. “I mean, honestly, what was I supposed to think? You have no idea what a shock it was, inhabiting the same vessel for four thousand years only to wake up one morning and find it inexplicably changed.” The angel pauses a moment, seems to consider the implications of his words. “I’m assuming that would have been the morning after the, ah, event.”

“Guess so,” Crowley shrugs. “Unless you went a few days without poking around down there.”

“No, no. I do believe I noticed right away. New sensation, and all that.”

“Right, new sensation. Can only imagine what that must’ve been like,” Crowley murmurs, taking a long, thoughtful sip of wine. A sinful smile curves his lips. “Actually, you know what,” he taps the side of his temple, above the inked in snake, “I can. Quite sensitive, if I remember correctly. Very… responsive.”

The angel performs a series of facial gymnastics. “I - ! You - ! Don’t _think_ about it!” 

“Why not?” Crowley asks, feigning innocence. “You asked me to remember.”

_“Well, you can stop remembering now!”_

“Actually, I really can’t. It’s like a floodgate.” Crowley mimes an explosion in front of his face. “All these images, racing back, clamoring for a spot up front. It’s chaos, I tell you.” 

By now, Aziraphale is not just nearing wit’s end, he is rapidly careening towards it at full throttle. His hands migrate into his hair, tugging and twisting the white-blond curls as he babbles incoherent words of admonition. With practiced nonchalance, Crowley pumps the brakes and leans back in his chair to signal his own defeat. “Fine, fine, I’m only joking. I’ll stop… visualizing.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale breathes, shoulders sagging. He takes a very, _very_ long drink of wine. 

“Course.” Crowley waits a moment, allows for the angel to regroup before sneaking in one last provocative line. “It was quite a nice, effort, though,” he murmurs, examining his nails with forced casualty. “Very… tempting. You don’t still happen to have it, do you?”

Aziraphale nearly snorts wine out of his nostrils. “That’s… That’s none of your business!” He cries, plump thighs snapping reflexively shut. 

“None of my business? Weren’t you the one saying a minute ago how desperately you wanted me? How your body _aches_ for me?” Crowley turns the sultry intensity of his gaze up to one hundred and watches Aziraphale squirm. 

“Yes, well, that was before I had all the facts!” 

“Oh, screw the facts. Come on, you can’t imagine how curious I’ve been all these years. Wondering if you had hung on to it…”

“Crowley, please - “

“Please?”

“Don’t ask me this. Please, don’t make me say - “

“Sssshh,” he hisses soothingly, and Aziraphale falls silent. Crowley’s forked tongue slithers out to taste the air, and he shudders involuntarily. “You don’t have to be shy, angel. I can smell your cunt from here.”

“Crowley!” 

There is a loud, mechanical whine as all the pipes burst overhead, showering the entire room with freezing cold water. In an instant they have leapt to their feet, Aziraphale with a squeal and Crowley with a muttered curse. Ignoring the angel’s confused, wailing apologies, Crowley calls upon the forces of darkness to reverse the ordeal, concentrating until the water has vanished without a trace and the pipes have resealed themselves. At last he rounds on Aziraphale, eyes shining.

“Talk about a cold shower.” 

Aziraphale flashes him a dirty look, which on the face of an angel is not all that dirty. “This - “ he tosses a cushion in his direction “ - is a perfect reminder of why nothing can ever happen between us,” he snaps, smoothing out his waistcoat and inspecting his surroundings for water damage. 

Crowley grins, but there’s no longer any heat behind it, only amusement. The chill of the water had served its purpose. “Sorry,” he says, and he means it. Aziraphale gives him a little acknowledging head shake, and Crowley feels a bit better, though only somewhat. Standing up now, it’s clear that he surpassed the point of pleasantly tipsy some time ago and was well into the territory of the over-drunk. Judging by the tinge of green under Aziraphale’s skin, he is feeling much the same. 

“Blegh. Too drunk. Shall we?” 

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, already closing his eyes in preparation. Moments later, the alcohol has been displaced from their bloodstreams and returned to the various wine bottles littering the room. It’s unpleasant, almost unbearably so, but preferable to a hangover. They grimace sympathetically at one another once the task is complete. 

A beat of silence hangs between them. Crowley convinces himself that it is awkward and stifling.

“Well,” he says, rumpling his hair one-handed. Trapped in the heart of Aziraphale’s bookshop, it suddenly occurs to him that nothing has ever sounded more welcoming than the judgment-free comfort of his own flat. And with both of them now standing and a great deal more sober, it feels familiarly like goodbye. “Guess I’d best be off.” 

“So soon?” Aziraphale asks, looking mildly crestfallen. 

“It’s practically morning, angel.” Crowley says so without glancing at his watch. Outside, the sky is lightening, the dawn of another cold, grey day in Soho. 

“Ah, so it is.” 

There is a long pause as they each reflect privately on what has been said over the course of the evening. By the time they are able to look at each other again, Crowley is fairly certain that the upset in his stomach isn’t just from the alcohol withdrawal. Every cell in his body thrums for a quick get away, for the safety of solitude, but Crowley resists the temptation of a miraculous escape in favor of a proper goodnight. After everything he’s put him through, Aziraphale deserves that much, at least. 

“So, I’ll be seeing you,” Crowley says, raising an arm casually in farewell. He turns to go, quick on his feet, but Aziraphale starts after him.

“Crowley,” he calls, stopping the demon in his tracks. Crowley turns to meet his unwavering gaze, and Aziraphale hesitates. “Before you go, there’s... one more thing I’d like to ask you.“

The demon’s body is weary, drained, and it reflects in his voice. “What?”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. His face is soft and very tired, but there is a burning in his eyes that speaks to an unanswered question. “It’s just… That night, before we went to bed together… Did we talk about the possibilities? Of what might happen…?”

“You mean, did we talk about you Falling?” Crowley doesn’t even have to think for a moment. He knows the answer. “No. There wasn’t... a whole lot of talking. Didn’t even occur to me to worry about it until the morning after.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale on an exhale. “But you, ah. You didn’t stick around. Afterwards, I mean.”

Crowley remains silent. It had been the decision of a lifetime, whether to lie beside the sleeping angel until he awoke, or to slip out like a coward. Millennia later, and Crowley still isn’t sure he made the right choice. “Wasn’t sure what to expect,” he mutters lamely, as though it were in any way a passable excuse. 

Unfailing in his compassion, Aziraphale merely nods. “I understand. It sounds as though the whole ordeal was a tad bit overwhelming.” 

Somehow, the angel’s kindness makes it worse. “You don’t have to be so nice about it. Was a bloody rotten thing to do,” Crowley mutters. His fingernails are sharp against his palms, but it is Aziraphale’s Grace that cuts deepest. A fairly pathetic explanation bubbles up in his throat, stumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. “It’s not that I wanted to leave. I just - …”

“Couldn’t stay,” Aziraphale finishes, a soft smile gracing his features. _I forgive you,_ it says. _I love you and I forgive you._

Crowley nods lamely. In his mind’s eye he can still see the angel, bare skin and tousled hair, asleep on a soft straw mattress. “If I could do it all over again,” Crowley tries, closing the distance between them and swallowing around the dryness in his throat. “I know I can’t, but if I could…”

Aziraphale wards him off with a shake of the head. “Best not to speculate.”

“Right,” Crowley whispers. “Best not.”

The silence that follows is deafening. For a long minute they stand there, neither looking nor speaking, until at last Aziraphale gestures toward the front of the shop and Crowley surges toward it with something akin to desperation. They reach the front door, and Aziraphale is quick to block it with his body. 

“Will I see you tomorrow?” After a moment of hesitation, Crowley nods, and a wave of relief washes over the angel’s face. “Good. Very good.” He reaches out to give Crowley’s shoulder a tight squeeze. Around the interior of the shop, the candles gutter and go out, and they share a small, bitter smile. “Do drive carefully,” Aziraphale says, holding open the door. 

“Always do,” Crowley replies. 

And with that they part ways, Crowley to his flat and Aziraphale to the apartments above his bookshop. 

Only this time, as promised, Crowley returns the morning after.

**Author's Note:**

> [walkwithursus](https://walkwithursus.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
